Writer's Block

It has hit me once again. Like a sledgehammer in the face. My pool is dry. Every word on the page is like a chore. Fifteen minutes wasted, with my head buried in my hands, racking my brain, filtering through every word memorized, every crossword solved, every Scrabble turn played, just to come up with a synonym for mistaken. It shouldn't be this hard. Mastering a chocolate soufflé shouldn't be this hard. The cursor on my computer screen flashes so many times that I soon mistake it for a flashing crosswalk pedestrian and I actually get up and begin briskly walking across my office. It seems strange to have writer's block when you’re a writer. I wonder…do doctors suffer from surgery block? Do they suddenly forget what to do next while performing a quadruple bypass? Do they fake it like I do? Just begin doing the motions, moving the scalpel from organ to organ, hoping something will come to them? What if the president experienced president's block? He just woke up in the morning and couldn't remember anything, didn’t know how to respond when the press asked him questions, had no idea what he was doing in the White House or how he got there (wait a minute…this sounds a little too familiar…I think this is affecting the current administration). There is another similarity between my writer's block and the current administration… in both cases, I can’t wait for them to end.

Not So Thriving Oleanders

So the Santa Anas have been blowing a little too hot...
So the rain has fallen a little too much...
It doesn't mean we aren't trying to thrive...
It doesn't mean we're less dangerous to touch.

Bitter

I remember my 6^th grade teacher handing out awards to the class at the end of the year. While she was handing the last one out, she announced that it was the first time she had to create a category for a student because the award wasn’t something she was ever compelled to award before. The student was me, and the award was for “Outstanding Cheerfulness.”

That was 6^th grade. A year later, I remember someone coming up to me in gym class and asking “Why don’t you ever smile?”

I don’t know when the line was drawn. When did I go from being outstandingly cheerful to never smiling? Looking back, I feel that once I crossed the line there was no turning back. And things just keep getting worse and worse. I have recently been called “moody,” “bitchy,” and “angry.” I’ve been told that my “snarky-ness cuts like a knife.” It’s not like I want to be those things, I don’t take pride it those attributes. It’s embarrassing being viewed as some sour spoilsport.

Although no one has said it, I’m scared that I’ve been pickled in these negatives so long that I’m edging closer and closer towards bitter. How do I get back? I wonder if my innocence is lost. Now that I’ve opened up my mind to darkness, can the light ever shine through?

I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t want to be one of those people others see and ask “What happened to him to make him like that?” But every day it seems I inch closer and closer. My moods are most often foul. I scowl more than smile. Where is salvation?

Nerves of...

How do I fight my nerves? They seem to win in the most important of situations. Namely, tennis matches. In practice, I'm golden. Shots go where I want them to the majority of times and I know what I'm doing. This Sunday was a rude awakening. It was the start of my tennis league and I lost against someone I had beaten twice before. I could not hit a forehand to save my life. It's usually my most potent shot, but we abandoned each other and couldn't find our way back to one another. I ended up losing 6-3 and didn't hold serve once. My serve is usually to set up my forehand, but I would set up my forehand and miss it.
I really don't know what to do and it's frustrating. Sometimes it's better, sometimes it's worse and I don't know what the cause is. I think I would be a better person all around if I could figure out a way to control my nerves and insecurity but that answer is too foggy right now. On the plus side, although my initial instinct is to bash my racket and never play again, after the hurt clears, I want to be out there on the court as soon as possible. I want to find my redemption in a perfect swing.

The beginning of a poem...

The things you said--
What you didn't say--
Are all scattered along the highway.